


his father's son

by firetan



Category: Nurarihyon no Mago | Nura: Rise of the Yokai Clan
Genre: (Well - more like Rihan Lives), (to be elaborated on), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, On Hiatus, Time Travel, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-19 03:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9417401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firetan/pseuds/firetan
Summary: Rikuo sinks into the lake in the Hanyō Village, and wakes up to the sound of a sword being pulled from the bushes and his father's voice.In which Rikuo doesn't quite realize he's travelled back in time, and inadvertently changes everything.(Edit:Thank you for the 2500+ hits! I'm insanely grateful <3)(Edit 2:This fic is currently on hiatus while I try to do some revisions and more thorough planning. Please be patient, it will return as soon as possible! <3)





	1. kerria japonica & waking up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raindrops28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raindrops28/gifts).



It's odd.

He's not conscious, but a part of him can feel the slender arms wrapped securely under his legs and around his chest, the fine strands of hair that brush against his bare wrist and the fold of cloth bunched under his cheek. He's not awake, he can't see, but he can feel the gently swaying rhythm of footsteps as their travel slows and dips down an embankment, hear the soft lapping of water as it ripples around him and the person carrying him. This is— _this is—_ where is this? _Ah, right, the Hanyō Village._ Hagoromo Gitsune said she would bring him there, didn't she? Is she who's carrying him?

Everything's a muddle, swirling in his subconscious mind like a swirling current full of debris and sediment, the colors bleeding into one another as though they wish they were paint. Is he cold? Is he warm? _The water is cold, isn't it?_ Ah, he's being submerged, and the lake is a cool breeze blowing crystals of frost like Tsurara's over the burning emptiness of his side. Where's Tsurara? Where is everyone, _why aren't they with him?_ Where is his Parade, more importantly, _where are his friends?_

_Are they still alive?_

His eyes are shut and he can't see and he's not awake, so why is his mind still running slow circles, stumbling like a drunk child but still making laps inside his cloudy head. The water covers him and he shouldn't be able to breathe as it fills his lungs, but there's no burn and no suffocation to jolt him awake, just peaceful darkness and a voice he should be able to recognize whispering words that he can't understand from somewhere very far away. _He knows who that is, doesn't he?_ Maybe if he just reaches out, if he can just make his limbs move and his eyes open, perhaps he'll be able to remember. If he can just _wake up_ , if he can just catch that voice in his hands and hold onto it long enough to understand the words—

Rikuo's eyes open.

He's not underwater. He's not floating. He's standing on a stone-paved walkway under trees heavy with blossoms, steps to one side and a wall to another and a light breeze brushing through his hair. His eyes are open and he's breathing and he can feel both of his arms again, and the wind caressing his cheeks carries that familiar voice from around the corner. A poem, mournful and gentle, and he knows it's being recited from years of memorization because it was murmured to him at night after his mother fell asleep. He can see yellow kerria flowers blooming, and his mind isn't ready but his body moves and his voice moves and he _runs runs runs_ back down the path. If he can just get there before the poem is finished, if he can just get there in time, not again, _not again, please oh please not again—_

It's strange. He's been cut by the Mao's Hammer before, but this time as it bites into the top of his shoulder and the palms of his hands where he grabs it, the sting of pain is somehow more vivid than it ever was. Perhaps because he's human right now? He was human when he went into the water, after all. _Where's his Fear?_ Ah, there it is, rising to his skin and pulsing like a second heartbeat as it wraps around his body and takes away some of the pain.

He can hear that familiar voice, his father (and how long, _how long_ has it been since he heard that voice), saying something behind him, but the words are muddy and unclear again because all of his senses — his eyes and ears, the feel of the sword cutting into his hands and the pulse of Fear in his veins — are focused with perfect clarity on the girl in front of him. Her eyes are already widening, clearing of the impostor memories that had infected her, and he silently apologizes to the her that brought him to the lake, because he's about to erase that future.

"Wake up, Yamabuki Otome! _Wake up!_ "

His voice is higher than it's been for years, more of a yelp than a command and isn't that strange? Behind him, he can hear a sharp inhale, and hands reach to his shoulders before his Fear snaps at them, forcing them away because his mind still isn't really awake, but his body and his voice and his heart are here and _they know what to do, don't they?_ This is what to do, _isn't it?_ He wrenches the sword out of her hands and shoves the hilt at his father's stomach, not waiting for Rihan to grasp it before he lets go and throws his too-short arms around the girl's waist and lets his blood seep into the black fabric of her dress.

She's trembling. Is she scared, like this? There are presences, things, behind her, and as he holds onto her a little tighter his Fear flares up around them, surging past her to _bite_ and _snap_ at the true monsters who sought to control her fate to their own ends. Tears land on his cheek, and her hands cling onto his shoulders as her head bows next to his, and he can see the monsters flinching away from his glare. He is not angry. He is not afraid.

No, Rikuo is _furious_ , the kind of fury that cracks through your skin like lava through the ground, simmering and glowing and just waiting to _burn_.

His voice is a child's voice, but he raises it up and commands because child or no, he is the Third and his rage _will be heard_. "Go back to Hell, Sanmoto Gorōzaemon. She's not your pawn to use." And to the shadowy figure at the back of the monsters, looking down his nose with disdain, Rikuo curls his lip in a snarl of disgust. "And Nue, you shame your yōkai blood, using your own mother for such selfish ends. Yamabuki Otome deserves none of this, and neither does Hagoromo Gitsune." _What is he saying? Why is he saying this?_ It needs to be said, but why is he saying it _now_ when his father's Fear flares behind him and the hands on his shoulders clench until he can feel her nails biting him through the fabric. "I hope you rot in Hell for all of eternity, Abe no Seimei, for selfishly abusing a mother's love."

The kerria vines are blooming overhead, and the monsters fade back into the shadows as his sense finally return in full and he can hear Otome — is she Otome, now, or is she someone else — weeping into his shoulder and he can hear birds in the trees and the _tap-tap-tap_ of feet running down the walkway. Familiar figures who are taller than his memories depict run around the corner, and Rikuo would turn to greet them but strong arms wrap around both he and Otome and dark hair tickles his cheeks as Rihan hold both of them close and takes deep breaths to calm himself.

Rikuo's mind finally catches up and he realizes that somehow, _somehow_ , this is real and not a dream and he's just turned the wheels of fate because _his father is here_. Here, hair falling in his face and both eyes open, here and warm and breathing. Rikuo's father is here and alive and smelling just like how he remembered, and all of a sudden his eyes are prickling and leaking hot, salty tears that make tracks down his cheeks because his father is _alive_.

 _He's_ alive.

_They're all alive._


	2. poisonous names & unexpected change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Something has changed, and Rihan has no idea what._
> 
> _Just that it centers around two children who have yet to wake up._

The Nura Main House is a mess.

A heavy sigh forces itself free of Rihan's chest and he rolls his shoulders, trying to loosen the tension sitting there as he slides open the door to the meeting room and steps inside. It's already full, both of bodies and of voices, murmuring and whispering under their breath as the multitude of eyes trace his path from the door to his seat at the head of the room, where he kneels onto the cushion and folds his arms. At his left shoulder, his father scowls and glances to the side at Karasu Tengu, looking as though he dearly wishes to be elsewhere. At his right shoulder, the position of the primary aide to the head, Kejōrō arranges herself with the grace of a dancer and a cold solemnity that even Setsura would grudgingly respect. Kubinashi, who would usually occupy the position, is upstairs with Wakana and little Tsurara, the three of them watching over the two children currently sleeping in his son's bedroom. It would have been best to have Kubinashi beside him, but Rihan has to be here to lead the meeting and he wouldn't have _anyone_ else guarding his son at a time like this, especially with… 

"Board and Advisors of the Nura Syndicate," Keeping his voice steady, he addresses the now-quiet room with hands carefully resting on his knees and eyes hard, "I must inform you that we may soon be facing another resurgence of Sanmoto's Hundred Tales clan."

The room immediately explodes once again into mutters punctuated by sharp exclamations, yōkai turning to their neighbors to ask if they'd heard about this before, and _what is the Second talking about_ , and _where is Kubinashi come to think of it?_ The noise level gradually rises, escalating from whispers to chatter to almost shouting, and the Main House aides glance askance at Rihan. He should be able to calm the gathering easily, but his eyes are still hard and far-away, apparently lost in thought.

In the end, it is Kejōrō who brings the room back to an accord, standing and slamming one foot against the floor with a loud thump that immediately silences the yammering voices and pulls all eyes back to the front. "Pipe down, you lot! The Second's got something to tell you, and he can't do that with you all yelling the roof down."

"Then why isn't he talking?"

The comment is from Gagoze, perpetual sneer in place under his hood, and Kejōrō opens her mouth to respond but is halted by Rihan's quiet voice. 

"Why, Gagoze? Why am I having trouble finding my voice to tell you that they attempted to murder me earlier this afternoon, here in my own backyard?" He isn't stupid, he had seen the angle of that sword and the upward trajectory, and he knows that if Rikuo hadn't grabbed onto the blade it would have instead pierced him clean through the chest. "Why do I find it difficult to describe how my son — my _five year old_ son — was impaled through the shoulder defending me? Why is it hard to explain that they have been conspiring against us from beyond the gates of _death itself_? I must apologize for my lack of explanation of the subject, as I'm just a slight bit distracted by the fact that they had the audacity to use _our_ Otome as a weapon and not even let her soul rest in peace!"

His voice cracks, and he realizes that his voice has climbed until he's nearly shouting. Similarly, the room has fallen into a frozen silence as he speaks, the lack of noise heavy and thick enough to cut. It's not just silence, though, and Rihan tugs the unrestrained Fear that he has been unconsciously leaking back under his skin abruptly, some of the weight snapping away and allowing more than one breath of relief. Shit, he really needs to get himself under control. He hasn't lost his composure like that in _centuries_.

Running one hand through his messy bangs, he takes a deep breath and tries again. "There is much we do not yet know about the situation. What I have been able to discern is that the Hundred Tales clan seems to be preparing to make another move, and that they seem to have allied themselves with followers of either Hagoromo Gitsune or her offspring, the Nue, who as of yet remains in Hell. We do not know what their next course of action will be, as it seems their plans for today were thwarted, so I must ask that everyone be on their guard and remain vigilant."

Fear — not any yōkai Fear, but his own apprehension and fright — pricks at his skin. "If the Nue is indeed involved with what is to come, please remember to protect yourselves and send word to others to do the same." There are some scoffs and disapproving grunts from around the room, and Rihan has to pause and silently remind himself that it is in their yōkai nature to protect none but themselves and allies. It's not their fault that the thought of protecting 'others' seems unnatural and strange. "It has been many centuries since it lived, but I doubt I need remind you of the damage it did to this country while it reigned."

A number of board members appear unconvinced, but Gyūki inclines his head solemnly in agreement. "It is as the Second says. If these truly are the ministrations of the Nue, we will not be the only ones in danger. I was born less than a century after he passed, and still recall the extent of the harm he did to both yōkai and humans." His lips thin, pursing in contrition. "While I do not personally care much for the fate of humans, it is true that our existence is symbiotic with theirs, and their species must thus be sustained. Without them, we will quickly fade."

"Thank you, Gyūki. It is as you say." Rihan knows better than to voice the other reasons he wishes to protect humans as well as yōkai — the board respects him, but they are yet yōkai and if they see weakness they may well change their minds. No point trying to convince them right now of the natural value of humanity. "That is all I have to tell you tonight. We will do our best to uncover more of the situation, and will keep you informed when we do. You are dismissed."

The murmuring returns — it was an unusually short meeting, after all, and carried dire news — but quite frankly, Rihan _doesn't care_. Most days, he is more than able to be the leader they want and need, but some days — well, some days he must be a father first. He hadn't expected it to be so — for at least a hundred years, he had even given up on ever holding a child of his own — but his son brought out all of the intrinsically human emotions in him and kindled them like fire. The need to protect, to nurture, to cause laughter and create smiles, the want to hold his child in his arms — they confuse Rihan.

But they _are_ , and by now he knows better than to try and push them aside. Ears deaf to the mutters and whispers filling the room, Rihan silently stands and pads from the room on feet as quiet as an owl's wings, Kejōrō following him automatically. His father doesn't make to follow, but that's okay. Nurarihyon may be a lot of things, but Rihan knows that the clan will _always_ be his father's top priority, even over family.

The walk from the meeting room to the stairs, from the bottom of the stairs to the top and to his son's bedroom, feels unnecessarily long and tedious. The small wound in the side of his abdomen where the sword had nicked him stings, but it's a pitiful distraction from the thoughts and questions making circles in his head. And, as though to taunt him, the house is uncharacteristically quiet, with not even the noise of clan underlings drinking and laughing to pull his attention away from his all-to-human worries.

"Oh, hey, Second."

As he pushes open the door to his son's room, Rihan is surprised by the sight of the current Zen Sect leader standing from Rikuo's bedside, his own heir sitting on the edge of the mattress and checking the two sleepers' foreheads for temperature with a characteristically grouchy expression. Zen — still a year or two away from his maturity, and as of yet healthy and unaffected by the poison his body will soon begin producing — may be patient when it comes to patients and Rikuo, but he tends to exude an aura of chronic irritation more often than not. In contrast with his son, Doku greets Rihan with a good-natured smile and a friendly pat on the shoulder, acting for all the world like an exuberant uncle despite the fact that Rihan is his elder by over three centuries. He's by far Rihan's favorite leader of the medical sect yet, and that's considering that Rihan's outlived at least three others so far.

Bearing the over-affectionate greeting patiently, Rihan presses past his friend to take a seat on the edge of his son's small desk beside Wakana, who is sitting in the matching chair and reaches out to grasp his hand as he joins her. "How are they?"

"Well, they don't seem to be _sick_ , if that's what you're asking." Doku rubs wearily at the muscle between his shoulder and his neck, glancing back at the children curled up in the bed with a mildly puzzled expression. His face is still friendly, but his red eyes are narrowed and thoughtful. "As far as I can tell, they're just recalibrating."

Seated on the windowsill and kicking her feet idly, Tsurara tilts her head in confusion. She's still relatively young for a yōkai, and occasionally has to have concepts and more archaic knowledge to be explained. Luckily for her (and sometimes less so for those around her), she's never been one to shy away from asking questions. "What do you mean by that, Lord Doku?"

It's his son who explains in a serious voice. "Both of their Fear levels have shifted significantly, and their bodies need time to rest and get used to it because the change was so abrupt. Rikuo's spiked and then dropped, so he also needs time for his body to build up his natural levels again." The younger bird yōkai makes a face. "And the miss — well, seems pretty weird, but it's kind of like she just became a yōkai. Fear where there wasn't any before, if that makes sense to you."

Rihan remembers how she had appeared, a human child with the face of a dead woman and a warm hand in his, and thinks it makes perfect sense. "That's alright. Thank you, Doku, Zen. I know it's rather late, so if you'd like to stay the night—"

"Ah, I should get back to our main house. Affairs to set in order, other patients to check on, all fun times for a clan head." Easy smile still in place, Doku shakes his head and rubs at his back again as though it's bothering him. "I think Zen might take you up on that, though."

"Wha— hey, don't go putting words in my mouth, old man!"

"Ah, but you were _thinking_ it, my boy." 

Zen huffs but allows his father to ruffle his unruly hair into even more of an outrageous mess, the gesture brusque and fond at the same time. "Tch, just don't go and die on me. I'm too young to be stuck with that whole administrative mess." It's an oft-repeated mantra with these two, a sort of morbid humor that can only be performed by those who know acutely just how limited their time is. Rihan's almost envious. After his recent brush with death, the first since he's settled into this _strange existence_ of being a husband once again and the even _stranger_ one of being a father, he's found himself ruing the fact that he doesn't tell his son and wife and even his father (when Nurarihyon's not being shortsighted or devil-may-care, of course) how much they matter to him, how much he hopes he will never have to see them laid to rest before him.

"Ah, of course not." Reaching for the door, the elder of the two sends his son a parting grin that looks entirely too wolfish for a yōkai of his kind. "You'd just make a worse mess of it anyways. Don't get in too much trouble here without me, my boy."

Zen rolls his eyes and nods, watching his father exit the room and waiting for a few moments before he too slides off the bed and stretches. "Well, I'll camp out in here, then. Hey, Yuki Onna, you know where they keep spare bed stuff?" Tsurara huffs and jumps off of the windowsill, leading him out of the room with a patiently exasperated look and her characteristic high chatter. Looking over his shoulder as he exits, the young bird yōkai tilts his head slightly to Rihan as though to say _'there, now you can talk'_. 

The Second feels an inexplicable urge to laugh. Doku has raised his son well.

Now that the room is quiet and still, just Rihan and a few whom he trusts, he allows himself to slouch tiredly and massage his forehead with his fingertips. It's been far too long a day, even for him, and with Rikuo involved… no, with _everyone_ involved, it's just very tiring. Wakana reaches up to gently rub his shoulder, and guides him to sit on the floor in front of her so she can work on the stress-induced tension there as he talks. Kubinashi claims Tsurara's seat on the windowsill, eyes just barely concealing his deepening displeasure with the story as it unfolds, while Kejōrō sits at the foot of the bed and gently tidies the blankets covering the two children who are still sleeping.

Rihan's told some of the others what happened — _all_ that happened — but only a few that he can trust to keep quiet until they know what's actually going on. Kurotabō, of course, had to know about the new actions of his old clan, and if Kuro knew then Aotabō had to be told as well. The two are nigh inseparable, despite their regular bickering and half-serious fighting, and it simply wouldn't be logical to tell one and not the other. Nurarihyon and Karasu Tengu had been told, and Rihan left it up to their discretion to tell anyone else they trusted; he can at the very least rely on his father to not twist the story, and ensure that others do the same. If any complications arise, he may have to tell Doku as well, but for now — for now, the last people to tell are those in this room with him, listening to him speak with expressions of growing confusion and dismay.

He allows himself a pause, halfway through, to organize his thoughts and memories. It had been such a short experience, and yet his recollection of it seems to stretch for far too long.

_"Dad, dad," Rikuo was crying, but the expression beneath the tears was far too old for his young face, "You're alive. You're really— you're not—" He couldn't speak for a few moments, and Rihan would have immediately picked him up and held him tight if they hadn't both been distracted by the girl — the girl Rikuo had called Yamabuki Otome, a name he shouldn't have even known — exhaling sharply and fainting._

_His son caught her with reflexes that he hadn't had earlier that day, the motion so fluid that if Rihan hadn't known better, he would have thought it was almost second-nature. The same went for the unnaturally solemn, gentle look on Rikuo's face as he looked down at the girl he had just been calling 'Big Sister' and playing kid's games with._

_Staggering under her weight (he may have caught her, but she was still much taller than him), Rikuo turned and pushed the unconscious girl into Rihan's surprised arms, expression still much to old and much to serious. "Whichever one she is now, you have to protect her. She saved my life."_

_Saved? Since when? Rihan was still pretty certain that none of them had met this girl before today, and the only things she'd done then were play with his son, try to kill him, and cry onto his son's shoulder. Then again, his five-year-old son was speaking and acting like someone twice his age, his dead wife was apparently now this little girl, and somehow it was all Sanmoto's fault again. None of this made sense._

_He had to take a few moments to find his voice, and it was rougher than usual when he did. "Whichever one? Rikuo, what do you mean?"_

_"Hagoromo or Otome, or both. Since it was interrupted, I'm not—" Rikuo's much-too-thoughtful voice broke off when he saw Kubinashi round the corner, a troupe of other yōkai close at his heels. "—I'll tell you later. Now, I think I'm… just gonna—" And with that, he too had closed his eyes and fallen sideways, Kubinashi's quick intervention the only thing that kept him from hitting the ground._

_The neckless yōkai had looked at him, at the girl, and at Rihan, before summing up his response in with a succinct, "What the fuck?"_

"So," Kubinashi is, unsurprisingly, the first to speak up once Rihan's fallen silent, blue eyes sharp and contemplative as he looks down at the sleeping children, "What you're saying is that this may well _be_ Yamabuki Otome herself. Not just some illusion, but…"

A long sigh escapes Rihan. "That's what Rikuo seemed to think. But then what he said about…"

"Hagoromo Gitsune." Pausing her hands, Wakana leans over to rest her chin on Rihan's shoulder, glancing at the others curiously. "I've heard you mention the name before, Rihan, but who… is she someone you fought?"

He leans back against her, letting their heads tap softly and breathing the scent of her hair (always a simple herbal scent that makes him think of cloudy mountains and backyard gardens and the peace he's spent his life fighting for). "Not me, but my father. Not too long before I was born, actually. She's— _hm_." How does he explain Hagoromo Gitsune? Rihan glances over to Kubinashi and Kejōrō for help, but they're both younger than him and know less about the fox than he does. "She's a very old yōkai, older than my old man and Gyūki, but she reincarnates so she's lived for over a thousand years. A nine-tailed fox." Wakana hums mildly in understanding, the vibration of it soothing. "Her last reincarnation was in Lady Yodo, near the end of the Sengoku — that's when she and my old man fought. In Kyōto."

Nodding slowly, his wife leans back and resumes the gentle massage, her brief silence thoughtful. "And he implied that she might be the one in that girl's body now?"

"That seems to have been his idea, yes." Kubinashi's head floats down to his lap, where his fingers rub tiredly against his forehead as though it's starting to ache. He glances over at Rikuo and the girl, curled together in sleep, with a conflicted expression. "And he wanted to protect her? Even if she's— _that_?" He sighs, long and clearly over-acting. "For once, I'd thought the headache-inducing gene had skipped a generation with Rikuo, but apparently I hoped too soon."

Well, that tugs a reluctant grin to Rihan's lips. "Ahh, well, he is my son, after all. Pretty unavoidable, I suppose."

Wakana laughs, the sound light and soft and _how did he ever deserve someone like her?_ "Oh, I'm sure Kubinashi doesn't really mind, do you?" Rihan's not looking at her, but he just knows she's targeted his friend with those doe eyes of hers from the way Kubinashi's cheeks flush and his head shoots from his lap to hover above his shoulders once again, sinking into the scarf he always wears until only his eyes and the tips of his ears are visible. Three hundred-some years old, and the neckless yōkai still can't handle pretty girls; what a _fun_ second-in-command Rihan has.

Then again, he's not one to talk — _he's_ never been able to resist those eyes either.

A gentle sigh and slow clap from Kejōrō brings their attention back to the matter at hand (and Rihan is reminded of just why _she_ is his first choice when Kubinashi can't act as his right hand, and it's not for her looks), and she waits patiently for them to focus before posing her next question. "You'll have to forgive me, Second, but I don't think the foxy lady is our biggest concern at the moment." When Rihan snorts in amusement and Wakana blinks slowly, she huffs and continues. "A certain _Abe_ that was mentioned?"

"Ah, the Nue."

Wakana continues to blink, clearly confused, and Kubinashi once again takes a moment to explain. "The Nue was a yōkai who ruled over the night some thousand or so years ago, but he was also a half-yōkai like Rihan, the son of Hagoromo Gitsune and a human man who became a very powerful onmyōji."

"So he was a yōkai and an onmyōji both?"

"Yeah." Taking over, Rihan nods and purses his lips. "And as our records have it, his reign wiped out most of the yōkai living on Japan for a good hundred years. That's why it's not as common to know yōkai Gyūki's age, or older. Most of our kind who didn't follow him, if they didn't go into hiding — killed, destroyed, all of them. We don't have any clear records of how or why, except that they were somehow unworthy." He sighs and leans his head back as Wakana's fingers press into a pair of particularly stiff knots at the back of his neck. "What few records we have call the event a _'cleansing'_ of some sort."

Shaking her head, Kejōrō raises her head to gaze blankly at the wall across from her, eyes distant and thoughtful. "And he may be back in the picture now. That's…"

Her voice trails off, and Kubinashi finishes for her. " _Really bad._ And it still doesn't explain how _Rikuo_ , of all people, knew those names."

"No." And that's the biggest question here, isn't it? Rihan _knows_ , he knows like he knows the weight of Fear on his back and the sound of his wife's voice, that it's impossible to truly escape the Night as long as one has even the slightest bit of yōkai Fear in their veins. And despite that, he's tried to keep as much of it from Rikuo as possible — he's wanted his son to have a _choice_ about the path he takes — and even if Rikuo _had_ been raised the way Rihan had, there was no way he should have known the things he spoke of. Rihan hadn't even heard of Hagoromo Gitsune until he was at least a few decades old, and the Nue until he was almost a century. Unless someone has been directly defying his orders, there's _no way_ Rikuo could have even _heard_ those names. "It doesn't."

He glances down at his son's sleeping face, taking in faint creases of worry and a tight expression that no child Rikuo's age should possess. Physically, he looks no different, but something in the back of Rihan's mind tells him that when he wakes up, he will not be the boy he was yesterday. None of them will be the same as they were yesterday, not with this new information and the knowledge that it's not over yet. Wakana's hand rests gently on his shoulder as he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

Something has changed, and _Rihan has no idea what it is_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took ages to get out. I'm very not sure about how to write Rihan, especially his internal monologue. We don't get to see a lot of what he was like at this point in his life, so I'm mostly guessing and estimating based on the situation and the people involved.
> 
> Thank you for reading! One (or both) kids will wake up next chapter! Please leave a comment if you like it ^^


	3. he says 'good morning'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _— to a room he's doesn't know, if he ever did before._

When he first awoke after sinking into the lake’s soothing waters, it had been like surfacing through a layer of dense, soft clouds. His senses had felt dulled, his limbs unfamiliar and oddly heavy, and everything had felt a little bit like he was still dreaming.

This time, the sensation of wakefulness slams into Rikuo with all the force of Yura’s God’s Arrow, if without the doubtless agony of the same. His eyes open wide in the space between one second and the next as Fear floods through his body to coil around his limbs, and he bolts halfway upright with a gasp of breath before a heavy something curled around his waist halts his movement abruptly. A heavy something that feels suspiciously like arms, and even though they’re not large or muscular or holding on particularly tight—

_He panics._

Before his thoughts have caught up with his instincts, Rikuo is out of the bed and out of the grasp of the child laying there and perched on the windowsill, breathing heavily and reaching blindly for a weapon that isn’t— _that isn’t—_

“ _Tsurara!”_ She must have been nearby, because the young Yuki-Onna darts into his room almost immediately, eyes wide and confused and concerned all at once. “Tsurara, where is my sword? Do you remember where I put it? Is it broken again? _Where is—_ “

As his mind finally returns to itself, realization floods back into his head and drowns out the quiet amusement bubbling up at the fact that they’d just had such a conversation on the way to retrieve Nenekirimaru from Akifusa on Mt. Osore. He is not on the battlefield, in the Hanyō Village, or even in Kyōto. This is the Nura Main House and he’s holding onto the edges of his bedroom window with hands that look far smaller than he remembers them last being, and his shoulder aches with the sting of an injury far lesser than the one it had suffered by Seimei’s doing. Tsurara is looking at him in concern that gives way to fear, and he realizes that he’s still cloaked himself in a Fear designed not only to protect but to _terrify_ , and he pulls it back under his skin with a thought.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

There’s a voice that’s familiar, that’s _safe_ , and Rikuo almost sighs in relief when Zen appears behind Tsurara’s shoulder, strolling into the room with the same casual air he always affects, and— and he looks far too young to be right, to be _Rikuo’s_ Zen. He’s not even a foot taller than Tsurara, if that, and his cheeks have a healthy warmth to them that they haven’t shown in years. Zen is too small, Tsurara is too scared, everything feels wrong and like he’s been shifted sideways and squeezed into an ill-fitting box, and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to _do_ or _think_ and—

His father appears in the doorway, hair slightly windswept and looking as though he ran all the way to the room, and Rikuo feels like he can’t breathe.

His father is _dead._

_His father is alive._

And he—

“Oh, _really?_ ” Ignoring his father and his primary attendant and his childhood friend as they enter the room, keeping a wary distance, he sinks down to sit on the window ledge and puts his face in his hands, because this is just patently unfair. “I have to do it all over _again?_ _All of it?_ Because this is— if this is some sort of coma state, I’d rather be _dead_ , and if this is the afterlife itself, it’s a cruel fucking _joke_ of one.” It’s not like him to talk that way, he knows that, but Rikuo didn’t ask for this and he doesn’t know what to do and if he’s not dreaming— if he’s not dreaming— “Why _me?_ If there’s some reason for this, _why is it me?_ ”

His thoughts fully intend to continue in this manner, spilling from his mouth in panic as his mind whirls round and round in dizzying circles, but a voice he would know anywhere and anytime calls his name, and he stops. Stops, and raises eyes reddened and irritated by tears to look at the speaker, because the gold-toned eyes meeting his belong to his father. His father, who is alive and breathing and kneeling down in front of him with a sort of hesitance that Rikuo can’t remember ever seeing there before, concern on his face and one hand raised to reach out.

When Rihan speaks, it’s softer and quieter than either of them can remember. “Rikuo, what’s wrong? What do you mean, again?”

It’s slowly starting to sink in as his thoughts settle, and as Rikuo finally begins to make sense of what’s happened, he laughs. It’s quiet, but genuine, and made still funnier by the look of uncharacteristic concern on his father’s face. “If this were a story, I’d be supposed to not tell you because then everything would be messed up, but you’re not dead this time and I—“ He sobers himself, because now that the hysteria is fading Rikuo remembers that he is the Third for a _reason_. “Dad, I seem to have travelled back in time and completely changed the course of future events.”

Understandably, the room falls into stunned silence at that declaration. Rihan looks dubious but thoughtful, Tsurara’s mouth opens and closes in befuddled speechlessness, and Zen—

Bless his heart, Zen is the first to speak up, and with his typical bluntness asks, “So how tall do I get in the future, then? Am I taller than that blockhead, Shōei?”

Rikuo can’t help but laugh again, because this feels almost normal, and responds in kind. “Than _Shōei_? You wish! You’re not even as tall as my dad!” Zen appears playfully offended, and Tsurara finally breaks her silence to burst into uncontrollable giggles, eyes darting between Zen and Rihan as though attempting to picture the continued height difference. Attempting to mediate the situation, Rikuo hastens to add, “But you are taller than me, for sure!”

“Tch, like that counts. I’ve _always_ been taller than you.”

Before he can come up with another counter, Rikuo is pulled down from the windowsill and enveloped in a strong grasp. For a moment, his panic (and Fear) flare up, but he breathes in and feels familiar long hair tickle his cheek, and instead leans into his father’s embrace. His hands sting a bit as he holds onto Rihan’s haori as an anchor, and he vaguely remembers catching a sword with them at some point in time — it must have been after he returned here, since catching Seimei’s sword would likely have killed him outright. And now that he thinks about it—

Rikuo pulls back from the embrace, apologizing quickly to his father as he shrugs open the collar of his yukata to examine the bandages wrapped around his startlingly small shoulder (was he really this _little?_ ). The injury doesn’t look like anything other than a regular sword wound, and he can’t see any marks of the wounds he’d received— well, before. “That’s good, my arm’s back.” He tenses and loosens his muscles, wincing at how untrained his body is now, and flexes his fingers in order to make sure they’re all still attached. After all, he’d just lost a large chunk of his arm, hadn’t he? And part of his head, for that matter, but since he could still _see_ and _hear_ just fine…

The silence in the room was resounding, and after a few more moments of his reverie Rikuo realized all the inhabitants were looking at him with expressions ranging from confusion to concern. “Are you alright? I know I probably sound like I’m making it up, but…”

“Rikuo,” Zen is the first to speak up, crossing the room to stand as close as he can get without bodily pushing past Rihan, arms folded in front of his chest and eyes narrowed, “What do you mean, your arm’s ‘back’? Was it—“

“Not gone, really.” He amends quickly, shaking his head. “But Seimei had this sort of ability to create — well, blasts of energy, even though that sounds like something out of one of Shima’s video games — and he caught me with one before Hagoromo Gitsune helped me out.” Sketching a line with his finger, he indicates what he thinks is the area that had been effected. He can’t _really_ remember, having determinedly not looked at the damage, but the pain was pretty spectacular and he thinks he has a pretty good sense of where he’d felt it.

“Seimei?”

Rihan’s voice is something Rikuo can’t describe, edged with a border of flickering curiosity that sounds more like the dad he remembers from before. It takes him a few moments to decide how to respond — how much does his father know? _Should_ he know? Eventually, he decides on the straightforward answer. “The Nue.”

“I know. I—“ The something he couldn’t describe is back, and Rihan rests his hands on his son’s small shoulders carefully. “Rikuo, you’re saying you’ve travelled back in time, and you fought the Nue.” That about covers what he’s said so far, so Rikuo nods, surprised when his father groans and leans back to press his fingers to his forehead as though afflicted by something. “How long— how far back did you travel? Years-wise, I mean. Did you _just—_ “

It takes Rikuo a few moments to do the quick math, helped by the fact that he knows exactly when he is (a date he doubts he’ll ever forget). “Yeah, I just fought him. And— eight years, I think. It was — March, maybe? Or April. Things got really busy once the Hyaku Monogatari started acting, so I sort of lost track of time.” He hadn’t meant to, but between preparing for what was basically a short-lived war and completely dropping out of his human life for that time, dates and months had become essentially meaningless. He would have caught up once he was healed and returned home, but…

Well, he _is_  healed and he _has_  returned home, just not in the way he thinks anyone had expected.

Rihan’s expression of outright dismay is uncharacteristic enough that Rikuo wonders for a moment if he’s somehow travelled sideways into a completely alternate reality, rather than backwards in his own. Beside him, Zen seems similarly affected, though of course he won’t let himself show it — he probably knows some basic stuff about the Nue, seeing as he  _is_ of age and the current heir to his Clan. It's he who speaks up, interrupting Rikuo’s meandering thoughts. “So you’re saying you fought _the literal Nue_ when you were what— thirteen? Seriously? Second, no offense, but where the _hell_ are you in this future? I mean, sure, he’d be legal by our standards, but it’s the _Nue_.”

And there’s the question that Rikuo doesn’t know the answer to— does he tell his dad, truthfully, what would have happened that afternoon if he hadn’t returned with new memories and new knowledge? Many different parts of him whisper to _keep it secret, keep it hidden, he’d already told more than he should have—_ but Rihan looks him in the eye and quietly asks, “Where _was_ I, Rikuo?”

And he can’t lie — his father is here and alive, Rikuo can’t lie to him. Not about this. Not when he _asks._

“You were dead.” He’s proud of how composed he keeps himself, because thinking about it never gets any easier. “You died there, under the kerria blossoms, because they used Yamabuki Otome’s poem as a trigger and hid the Mao’s Hammer in the bushes. Because Sanmoto wanted revenge, and Seimei needed to reincarnate his mother so that he could be reborn and then cast her aside like a broken blade.”

Rihan’s face appears very pale, though he always did have a fairer complexion than Rikuo and Nurarihyon had possessed. It seems to take him a few moments to decide what he wants to react to first. “And so you fought him instead?” Zen, meanwhile, takes no time at all to ask just why the hell he sounded like he was defending ‘that fox lady’. To no surprise (or, perhaps, to much surprise, but not his own), Rikuo responds to the latter first.

“She saved my _life_. If it weren’t for Hagoromo Gitsune, I wouldn’t have survived fighting Seimei, let alone defeating him.” And to his father, with a feeling of necessary patience. “I was the leader, it was my duty. I had gathered everyone together, yōkai from all over Japan, and they fought hard to give me the chance to face him.”

He thinks of Ao and Kuro, fighting Yuiyui as she pitted them unwillingly against each other. Of Ryūji’s awe-inspiring shikigami Suiryū releasing the Aoi Castle’s spiral seal, Tamazuki and Dassai facing down Ariyuki, Abe no Yoshihira who waited a thousand years to fight for a father who only sought to use him while cursing his blood like a darkened mirror of Rikuo himself. He remembers hearing the footsteps and wingbeats and cries of yōkai from all over the country coming to his side, to fight with him — the Tōno yōkai, Dassai’s Heavy Drinkers and Tamazuki’s Hachijūhakki Yakkō, the Kyūshu Tsukumo Yakō and his own clan. Remembers Tsurara and Tsuchigumo and Itaku, following at his back as he faced Seimei himself. Thinks of Hagoromo Gitsune, stepping bodily in front of him with her arms spread and declaring herself his mother.

Rikuo wonders, with a pang of sorrow, how many of them survived the night. He can remember voices calling to him once the sky cleared and the dust settled, but his memory can’t place faces to sounds, and _everyone_ had been injured in the fight — there was no way of telling who would have survived to the next day.

Unbidden, tears start to gather in the corners of his eyes, and he wipes them away with the back of his (small, small) hand. He’s the third head of the Nura Clan, damn it all, he shouldn’t be crying over something like this! None of them were weak, surely they all made it through— but their opponents weren’t weak either, and he knows better than anyone just how much your brain can lie to you when you’re a footstep away from the other side. So the tears keep coming. After a few more futile attempts to stop them, he simply gives in and weeps, mourning for the friends he’s lost to either death or a future that now will never be born. Everything that he had known to be true, everything that had been _constant_ and _solid_ — gone, lost to the mists of another world and another time, leaving just Rikuo in a too-young body with no sword and no Hyakki Yakkō and only the memories of _a life that was_ to haunt him.

It’s unseemly, to stand in the middle of his room crying like a child (forget that he has never been anything but, because it was only ever a mutual fiction built on the lies he'd told himself, because Rikuo’s childhood ended under the kerria and he hasn’t cried since), but his father— _his father—_ wraps arms back around his shoulders and holds him tight, and it’s not going to _fix_ anything, but…

But it’s nice, all the same.

And if he feels small hands, cold like winter’s chill, squeezing under his father’s— if he feels lanky arms that haven’t yet acquired their ever-present fever-heat, draping themselves over his shoulders as a narrow chin rests on his head— if he hears an achingly familiar voice from the door before soft hands cup his cheeks and his mother presses gentle kisses to his forehead— if the arms wrapped around him are shaking, just a little, if he hears his father’s breathing stutter ever so slightly—

Well, it won’t fill the far-too-big emptiness in his heart, but for this moment— for this one moment, he’s surrounded by warmth, and maybe it’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of you have been asking for this, so sorry for the wait!! I had a lot of this written for a while, but I wanted to make it longer and my inspiration was taking a long walk through the woods, so... ugh.
> 
> I can't guarantee any speed with the next chapter, so please be patient. As it is, this one is shorter than I would have liked, so I'm sorry for that too.


	4. a future-that-was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It tastes of blood and fire, but it's a story he has to tell. They have to understand._

They tuck Rikuo back into his bed, though he insists on staying awake to explain things (as best he can, at least) to the others who haven’t yet joined them. Not to mention that he’s only told them the barest amount of what happened— what had yet to happen, _if it happened at all_ — in the future. He needs to remember that this is— this is a new time, and a second chance (and a world where his father is _alive_ again, a world where Rihan had never died in the first place). He’s five-going-on-thirteen, but Rikuo was one of many children in his time who had grown up too fast and he _knows_ , even with the edges of creeping panic on his mind and a tremble in his too-small fingers, that it won’t do to lose himself in the past now that it’s out of his reach.

He has to keep moving forward. For his sake, and for everyone else’s.

( _All the friends he’ll never make, or friendships that will never be the same—_ )

Wakana remains seated on the side of his bed, one arm wrapped around her son’s shoulders so he can lean against her side, fingers carding gently through his hair. Tsurara has taken a perch on the windowsill, which seems to be habit for her (Rikuo can’t remember if she had still done that, back in the past— future— future-past— _the future-that-was_ , perhaps that would be most accurate), and Zen sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed with his back against the wall, arms folded in a manner so achingly familiar that Rikuo can almost forget how his friend is far too young and far too small and far too _alive_. (Nobody says that’s a bad thing — he’s always dreaded how short his time with Zen is fated to be).

It’s a long few minutes that Rihan is gone, retrieving Kurotabō and Aotabō and Kubinashi and Kejōrō because they are his trusted Hyakki Yakkō and they were (are— _will be?)_ Rikuo’s and they should know. (He wishes he could tell all those he trusted, but Shōei is still just a _child_ and his allies in Tōno and Kyōto don't even _know_ him yet and he has to keep his cards close or he'll just cause danger instead). Rikuo tries to focus on his breathing (deep breaths pulling into healthy, uninjured lungs without strain or sting) and each sensation that his skin registers (no pain, no missing body parts or _horrifying, agonizing rot eating him from within—_ ), and the gentle hum of activity echoing from further within the Main House.

Judging by the weight of both his mother’s and Zen’s eyes on him, Rikuo’s not sure he’s doing a very good job.Perhaps there’s something about his face— well, of course there is. It would probably be a good deal more troublesome if he was entirely expressionless, wouldn’t it? Or should he be nonchalant? (Rikuo has no idea what to do with this silence, and the weight of it presses down on his shoulders like the cloying grasp of fate).

The arrival of the others is heralded by Kubinashi’s exclamation of “Rikuo!” (Odd, considering he usually went for the more formal _‘Young Master’_ instead), immediately followed by an attempt to reach around Wakana to embrace him tightly. It doesn’t go very well the first time, but Wakana graciously shifts to the side to let the neckless yōkai wrap his arms around Rikuo as though afraid he’ll disappear if he lets go (had Kubinashi always cared _this much_ about him, when he was young). Kejōrō’s geta click softly across the floor as she finds a seat where she can lean back against the bed frame, tugging on Kubinashi’s haori until he reluctantly lets go and joins her, though his head remains hovering near Rikuo and Wakana like he’s unwilling to let him out of his sight. Kurotabō and Aotabō, both looking almost amusingly out of place in Rikuo’s childhood bedroom (he couldn’t remember if they’d ever been in there in the future-that-was — _Kuro_ , perhaps, but Ao was almost a definite ‘no’), lean against the wall beside the window frame with the distinct appearance of trying not to knock anything over while doing so.

Rihan claims the small chair at Rikuo’s desk, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees and a serious expression on his face. The effect is slightly ruined by the still-visible damp patch on the shoulder of his yukata (the downside to wearing a lighter color — one of the reasons Rikuo had taken to wearing black so often was its convenient ability to not show stains easily, especially ones from blood). It feels almost surreal, to look at the father he’s only ever known in memories and stories for most of his (short) life, and see him _alive_ and _breathing_ and more concerned about his son than about changing into a yukata without tear-stains starting to sink into the fabric. Had his father always been like that? Had he really—

( _Had he always cared about Rikuo this much, and nobody had ever bothered to tell him?_ )

(Was it that surprising, really, because Rihan had been the beloved Second Commander and of course nobody would have bothered to remember that he was half-human _too_ , with thoughts and feelings and a heart of his own—)

(Because, in a way, Nurarihyon would have never understood his own son like Rikuo did.)

(And wasn’t that sad.)

“Rikuo?”

He jolts out of his reverie, realizing that he’d drifted off into thoughts once more. _Hadn’t he just sworn not to do that?_ “Ah, sorry. What is it?”

Before answering, Rihan exchanges a Look with both Kurotabō and Kubinashi, the sort of look Rikuo supposes he’s not supposed to notice. And to chose those two in particular, it can only mean one thing. Or perhaps more, but Rikuo _knows_ (knows like the rest of them _don’t_ , not _yet)_ that the more are really all just one and the same, in the end. After a few moments of silent conversation in the yōkai finger-sign that Rikuo shouldn’t know yet (and politely pretends not to see), Rihan sighs and leans forward. “Rikuo, I need you to tell us about everything that happened to you, beginning from my— my death.”

A few surprised gasps and inhales fill the room, and Rikuo realizes his father didn’t tell any of the others who had joined them what he had revealed after waking up. Probably wise, since he doubts Rihan could explain it as accurately as he (and that’s not _hubris_ or _pride_ , it’s just cold hard practicality). And this is exactly _why_ , because— “I can, but you have to know that it didn’t start there.” His father stares at him with amber eyes, and since when did he have those dark shadows? Surely, the _Second Commander_ can sleep sound when he does, knowing the night is nothing to fear.

Rikuo’s throat feels scratchy ( _festering rot, blinding pain, the taste of blood and burns filling every breath—_ ), and he has to swallow roughly before continuing. “In some ways, I guess, it did start there. But in a way, it also started when we defeated Sanmoto Gorozaemon’s Hyaku Monogatari, or when Nurarihyon lead our clan to take down Hagoromo Gitsune in Kyōto and rescue my grandmother Yōhime four centuries ago.” There’s something about saying it eloquently, with the poise of his father and grandfather rather than his own voice, that helps it seem a little more _distant_. “But actually, everything started something over a thousand years ago, when Hagoromo Gitsune fell in love with a human man and had a hanyō son named Abe no Seimei.”

“The Nue.” His father sighs, and it sounds almost sad. “I’d hoped he might play a smaller role, but— Well, if that’s where we must begin, then let’s. Kejōrō, if you could take notes? I have a feeling we can't take any of this lightly.”

Kejōrō, who in her human life had grown up among courtesans and geisha and had been taught to read and write as a child, nods regally and accepts the notepad and simple pen that Rihan passes her from Rikuo’s desk. Once she’s settled in, Rihan returns his gaze to his son and indicates that he begin.

Glancing once at the girl still sleeping beside him, Rikuo takes a deep breath (the taste of _blood_ and _burn_ ) and tells the gathered members of his family (his once-and-future clan, the Hyakki Yakkō of both the _future_ and the _future-that-was_ ) the story of the Nue. Much of the tale sounds strange in his too-high child’s pitch, because he’s only heard it once before, and that was in Hagoromo’s uncharacteristically soft voice as they ran across the countryside to reach the Hanyō Village. She had told him, in a quiet tone not quite concealing her all-too-human grief, about the son she had loved once upon a time. And so he tells his family, too, the story of a boy half-light and half-dark, a powerful onmyōji who loved his mother _so dearly_ he asked to be reborn as her son once more when his life came to an end. A man who allowed a darkness even deeper than the night to consume him when his mother was killed, a darkness that he wielded as a weapon against those he found _unworthy_ — humans and yōkai alike.

He talks and talks, until his voice grows hoarse and his mother presses a cool glass of water into his hands, about how in each of her incarnations, Hagoromo Gitsune attempted to once more give birth to her beloved son, unaware of the tyrant he had become or of the long-lived onmyōji clan he had spawned — the family that would come to be known as the Gokadoin. Rikuo speaks briefly of Nurarihyon’s battle with Lady Yodo-who-was-Hagoromo-Gitsune (because surely, they all know enough about that story _at the least)_ , and the curse she placed upon his family line before her ultimate defeat.

“Wait, wait.” Holding up a hand to pause the story, Rihan presses fingers into his temple and blinks a few times, as though in disbelief. His father’s face is still young, but to Rikuo this expression looks _far too much so_. Too open, too genuine. Not like a yōkai commander. ( _And yet, somehow, still like a father_ ). “A _curse?_ On Dad’s line?”

Hesitating, Rikuo nods. “Yes — one that no yōkai of Nurarihyon’s line would be able to reproduce with another yōkai. Only, since he went and married a human anyways, he didn’t _know_. That’s why you and Yamabuki Otome could never conceive. She’ll remove it if we make peace with her, though — she did last time. Or, at least, she _said_ she would.” He pauses, looking down at his hands (unscarred, far too small, far too _whole_ ). “I… I came back before any of that could happen, I guess.”

_I died,_ is what he means but doesn’t say, and Rihan knows it. The others look to their leader with questioning glances, and he waves them off with a silent command to wait.

Rikuo politely doesn’t mention the telltale frost spreading up the windowpane, or the quiet sound of _tearing_ when Zen’s clenched fingers accidentally tug holes in the blanket. They know too. Not the _whole_ story, not the whole context, but despite being young they’re both yōkai and they know what death _means_ like a familiar whisper, Zen especially. ( _He’s buried two generations already, one he can barely remember, and soon enough he knows he’ll be burying a third)_.

Meanwhile, Rihan sighs softly and leans back, running restless fingers through his mop of dark hair. “Well, I suppose that… that _explains_ a lot.” For a few moments, he appears to compose himself (much more like the father Rikuo knows, or at least the one he knows _of_ from stories). “Please continue, Rikuo.”

And so he does. Resolutely ignoring the shaking of his hands, and the phantom aches and pains and chills beginning to creep along his skin, Rikuo continues. He talks about the Hyaku Monogatari, all of the facts he learned from Kurotabō and Kubinashi and his grandfather and the yōkai of the clan itself. He brings the story forward and forward, through the years upon years that they know far better than he ever _could_ , until he reaches a quiet spring day in 2003 when he met a pretty girl while walking with his father, and his world shattered apart.

“—and that’s what— well, what _would have happened_ , if I hadn’t come back.”

Some of the gathered yōkai seem to be putting it together, but Aotabō voices aloud the thoughts of all those who aren’t. “Come back? From _where?_ ”

Rikuo inhales deeply (his throat tastes like the blood and fire from nothing but a memory), and stares at his hands as he speaks. “From the future — or, at least, a future-that- _was_. Now that I’m _here_ , and you all _know_ , it’s a future that won’t ever be. That was set in stone the moment I caught the sword that was supposed to kill Dad.” He takes a sip from the glass in his hands, wishing in a quiet part of his mind that it would wash away the taste of wounds this body had never sustained, and sighs. “But this happened eight years ago for me, and the last two of those are ones I think you all need to hear about. They’ll— I think they’ll bring everything together.”

“Eight _years—_ no, no _way_.” Leaving the blankets to hover over his shoulders properly, Kubinashi turns to look at Rikuo with what could almost pass as anger to someone who barely knew him (but to the boy for whom he was _almost_ a second father, it’s painfully clear that he’s _afraid_ ). “You were— _you were just a kid!_ ”

Caught off-guard, Rikuo stammers for a moment, “I-I was— I was _thirteen_ , I was _of age—_ “

“For _yōkai_ , but you’re _three-quarters_ human, Rikuo!” Kubinashi looks around the room, trying to find everyone’s eyes. “ _You shouldn’t have—_ If all this is coming up the way I _think_ it is, why did anyone let you _near_ that— that _thing?_ Rihan and Lady Wakana I can _understand_ , being dead and human, _but—_ Kuro, Ao, why didn’t they _stop_ you? _Why—_ ” His voice cracks momentarily, and Rikuo is abruptly reminded that Kubinashi lived as a human before he became a yōkai, like Kejōrō and Aotabō and even Gyūki, and has always been prone to feeling things with an _intensity_ that many born-yōkai can’t quite reach. “ _—why didn’t I do anything to stop you?_ ”

Rikuo can’t look him in the eye, because it’s a brutal reminder that to his Hyakki Yakkō — the versions of them that _lived_ and _fought_ beside him in the future-that-was, rather than these younger versions that don’t know him more than skin-deep — _he’s dead_. Dead, and likely buried beneath the water with his father and could-have-been mother. It’s a reminder that _his_ Tsurara, the one who performed Matoi with him and created her own following as a powerful Yuki Onna, is probably crying somewhere. That _his_ Kubinashi is probably drinking, not to celebrate but to _forget_ , and his Kejōrō probably doesn’t have the strength of will to stop him. That the danger is gone, but his clan has been left leaderless and heirless and _he’s left them all behind—_

“Because I was the Third Head of the Nura Clan.” His voice is stronger than he feels, even though he wets his lips and tastes _blood_ and _fire_. “And you were my Hyakki Yakkō. Because I had called _all the yōkai of Japan_ together to fight back against the Nue’s second cleansing, and it was my duty to lead them.”

“And _then_?” Surprisingly, it’s Kurotabō who speaks up. “What did we do then, under your leadership?”

Rikuo stares at him, blinking away memories of a man lost to a future that will never be (Kuro telling him the story of his father’s fight against Sanmoto and teaching him how to properly use Matoi, Kuro helping them rescue Torii, Kuro and Ao competing in a way he almost envied because it meant trust and friendship _or at least the closest to those yōkai could get_ ) and swallowing before he speaks. “But— but that’s just at the very end. I— shouldn't I tell you the parts that come before it first?”

“Oh, is _that_ it?” Zen’s voice is acerbic when he speaks up, arms crossed and brows furrowed in the same manner as always (a small sanctuary, because Rikuo knows in every cell of his body that no matter what, at least Zen will always be at his side, no matter how their relationship in this future is different from that of the last). “Or do you just not want to tell everyone about how you lost an arm _and half your face_ fighting him? And then, as far as I can tell, presumably _died?_ No way to avoid that part, you know, it’ll come up eventually regardless.”

And, as usual, Zen had the ability to state things plainly, no matter how painful or unfortunate they might be. (Rikuo’s almost grateful).

For a few moments, Rikuo’s words stick in his throat ( _like blood clots and inner rot_ even though they’re nothing but words this time), and when they do finally escape he almost wishes they hadn’t. “Yes, well, at least it was a lot nicer than rotting alive!”

Yeah, probably would have been better to keep that part out, if Tsurara’s nauseated expression and his father’s narrowed eyes are anything to go by. The phantom feelings and tastes won’t go away, though, and it’s only when Zen leans over to physically hold his hands down that he realizes he’s been picking at his skin enough to leave it reddened and irritated. His friend’s expression is exasperated.

“You know, I wasn’t really asking you to distract us from the probably-dying with something _worse._ ” His thin lips quirk up slightly into a reluctant smile. “Does give a good reason for you to start from the start, though — anything like _that_ needs a _whole lot_ of context, I reckon.” He leans back, resting his head against the wall and absently checking on the girl still sleeping beside them. “So why don’t you give us the whole story, then?”

And Rikuo does. He tells them, between exclamations and questions and moments where it feels like he can’t breathe and needs to pause until he can, every detail he can recall of the last eight years. Every speck and event that made up the future-that-was, the future that’s long out of his grasp now. He tells Tsurara about the Arawashi family, and her cadre of Tsukumogami assistants, and how she was his most trusted advisor. Zen, he warns about the ways danger can lurk at your right hand if you’re not careful, and tells of stern care and _Matoi_ and beautiful, _poisonous_ wings. From the red-light district to the slopes of Mt. Nejireme and the old temples of Kyōto, he pulls memory upon memory from the depths of his mind and speaks until his throat is hoarse and he can’t taste anything anymore — no blood, no fire, _nothing_.

They listen. Kubinashi has to leave to be sick once, and Tsurara looks a little green at a few points, but they take it rather well. Rikuo almost would have expected fewer reactions — they are yōkai, after all, and aside from Zen and Tsurara they’ve all seen more of war and death than he has. Perhaps this time is just more personal?

But his Yakkō, _his family_ , sits through even the worst points of the story with open ears and questions on the tips of their tongues. Even when Rikuo tears up at the parts that bring back all his worst memories, or when he has to stop to compose himself, they wait for him to continue. When he reaches the point of his ( _death_ ) return and his voice finally fails him, his mother’s arms wrap around him and Kubinashi’s head rests against his legs (Zen’s hand on his ankle, Kejōrō’s hair a soft weight by his foot, a cool breeze that smells like Tsurara’s kimono, Kurotabō’s staff jingling softly and Aotabō’s deep breathing _and his father’s Fear just heavy enough to feel_ ), and it almost feels safe.

( _He’s so lucky to still have them here at his side, even if they’re almost strangers behind familiar faces. So lucky to not be alone in this new future-to-be_ ).

(If he could admit it to himself, Rikuo would say that he’s terrified).

( _But he’s not alone_ ).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I'm not really pleased with the writing quality (it feels a little too un-polished, or ramble-y, or something), but at least I've got a chapter! (I just turned 20 today, so consider this a birthday present to myself in the form of a chapter for you — or something like that. I don't know, lol).
> 
> (I'll try to have more actual plot next chapter... insofar as I can write plot at all, at least).
> 
> Please comment if you like it! :)


	5. AUTHOR ANNOUNCEMENT — NOT A CHAPTER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> small announcement that i hope doesn't disappoint ppl

Hey guys! Author here.

 

I know a lot of you have really enjoyed this fic, and have been eagerly and patiently (or impatiently) waiting for updates. 

 

... The thing is, I don't think there will be any for a while.   
  
  


I started _his father's son_ on a whim, wrote the first chapter and posted it before having any sort of plan of what to do next. I still don't have much of a plan, to be honest. I'm working on it, but it's slow going and I'm not entirely satisfied with it. Figuring out every new chapter is difficult, and I feel like they keep going off-track of where I want them to be.

 

So I'm putting this fic on indefinite hiatus. It's not abandoned, it's not cancelled, and I'll definitely come back to write (and finish) it sometime. But I've been thinking, and the conclusion I've come to is that I ultimately just need to do a total rewrite of everything I have so far, with a solid plot thread planned and an endgame in mind.

 

I'm not going to take down the chapters already posted, and I'll add a new update chapter once I've gotten things reorganized and rewritten and posted again.

 

Thank you all for being so patient and encouraging, and I hope you can bear to wait a while longer!  
  
  


In the meantime, I will likely keep updating my other ongoing NuraMago fic, a beautiful son (my trans Rikuo AU where I'm having a lot of fun sticking my queer little fingers into this universe), so if you want nura content from me definitely keep an eye on that! (As always, I love to have writing prompts on my tumblr mer-birdman, so if there's anything nura that you'd Like me to write, I'd be more than willing to take a few oneshot requests!)

 

Thanks again to all of you! I wouldn't be here and writing without you.

 

\- Fire/Bird/etc...

**Author's Note:**

> Credit for the initial idea goes to the magnificent raindrops28! Thanks for letting me run with it! :)
> 
> This will be multi-chapter, but like with all my multi-chapter works, there's no set update schedule. I have intermittent bursts of inspiration between periods of listlessness, so I'll be posting updates when I have the time and energy to write them.
> 
> Please leave a comment if you can! I really appreciate them <3


End file.
